Air and sky today are as gray as the water in the image above, but it’s neither clouds nor rain. No, this eerie miasma is entirely the product of wildfire smoke, a suffocating pall that endangers not only us, but the small spirits who share this land with us.
Despite breathless local headlines to the contrary, we are still far below our usual levels of precipitation for a fourth summer now. The drought still has the land firmly in its death grip, and that is unlikely to change in the foreseeable future. After a week of no rain and more aridity to come, the earth is dry as ash, not so much as a puddle anywhere, never mind a pool or a pond. It has made for a summer nearly devoid of several of our usual messengers, to say nothing of the migratory birds who once made our land a short detour from their usual flight path, taking advantage of our large pond to refuel and recharge before resuming their journey.
The most noticeable void is perhaps that presented by the absent dragonflies and damselflies. I can count the number of appearances of them this summer on the fingers of both hands, and possibly still have fingers left over; perhaps eight visitations in all. Both kinds of small wingéd spirits of the air and waters have visited, albeit only briefly. There is, after all, no safe space for them here anymore.
Dragonflies and damselflies require pooled water to reproduce safely, and of that we have had none. Wings is contemplating trying to bring the water down briefly, should there be any at all available, but that’s no sure thing. And soon we shall be past the point of irrigation anyway; despite the oppressive heat, fall is already here in the turning of the leaves and the migration of other beings.
Maybe it’s worth the effort. After all, drought notwithstanding, the mosquitoes and flies are flourishing. Dragonflies help keep their numbers in balance.
That’s not all they do, of course.
Dragonflies, in some traditional cultures, are messengers: small spirits of medicine capable of bringing us the words of the spirits. It’s not surprising; their unusual abilities in flight make them perfectly suited to the role. As I wrote once long ago, what flight paths are open to them?
The Six Directions, of course: Dragonfly can, under his or her own power, fly forward; backward; upward; downward; sideward to the left; and sideward to the right. North; South; East; West; and depending on the tradition, Above and Below, or Outward and Inward.
Add to that the fact that they can hover in place, a necessary attribute for a spirit of the air tasked with delivering a message to a perhaps-reluctant listener?
I have long said that our ways of understanding our world, of identifying and naming the spirits with whom we share this earth, are based not on superficial appearances, but on what they do. Dragonfly is a perfect example of this practice.
That said, Dragonfly’s appearance is extraordinary, both from the standpoint of simple physical practicalities and from that of its otherwordly beauty. Tomorrow’s post will provide a few examples in various shapes and shades, but I have yet to see one, dragonfly or damselfly, of any size and shape, whose beauty was not medicine of a sort in itself.
That’s fitting, too; in my own language, one of the words for this small but powerful spirit of summer shares a root with the word we use for “bottle” or “flask.” They do look a bit like tiny, colorful bottles when skimming across the surface of the water, translucent as jewel-toned glass. And what, in our way, does a flask hold?
Medicine.
Here, of course, water is a scarce gift at the best of times. This year, we have glimpsed the dragonflies and damselflies hovering around the plants that we understand similarly as medicine: the sunflowers and sage, the wild raspberries, the tiny early asters.
And that, too, is a message: Even in drought, there is medicine. The tiny bottle-like spirits of beauty have told us so.
~ Aji
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